Make it Quick
by intallah
Summary: Kakuzu/Hidan-ruin me, he begs, destroy me. Not for the faint of heart.
1. part one

**Make It Quick**

A Kakuzu/Hidan fanfic. The characters are 100 Kishimoto's and I am simply borrowing them.

_Contains gore, strong language and disturbing/sexual content._

1.

Hidan's skin was hot and tense, slick and shaking beneath Kakuzu's hands. He stuttered, Kakuzu's name fading and gasping on his tongue and the years fell from him, leaving him nothing but a frightened boy, face open with pain. Kakuzu looked away, fingers terse as he clenched his hands around Hidan's tight, quivering shoulders, pressing the struggling man against the hard, cold concrete. A terrible hiss slid between Hidan's bloodless lips, a whisper of pain. His body roiled, arched under Kakuzu's hands, one still on Hidan's shoulder, the other pushing against his fevered, heaving chest. Blood coated the ground beneath Kakuzu's knees, sticky and maddeningly warm.

"You _wanted_ this," he hissed, lowering his lips to Hidan's ear, "Come now, its no worse than your ritual." Hidan moaned, voice low and quivering and Kakuzu bore down harder against him, distracting him from the threads that played along his abdomen, his legs and wrist, reattaching limbs and closing abrasions that gaped, blood flowing hot across the ground, appearing black and thick as ink in the half-light. One leg was re-attached, and still lay at an odd angle, still white and isolated. Hidan's fingers twitched as his hand was once more connected to his arm. The blood began to trickle, rather than flow.

Hidan was trying to speak, lips moving around a word that he could not say. Pain was choking him, tightening its grip around his throat and his mind, his eyes, deeper and darker than any chasm, lost focus. His body went limp as Kakuzu finished stitching his left leg. One word escaped from his tortured lips-_Jashin_ and his eyes flew open in agony, or ecstasy, briefly, before they slid shut.

"You're welcome," Kakuzu said fiercely, fighting an impulse to stand and kick at Hidan's lifeless form. His robe was stained, blood being the only evidence that remained of Hidan's suffering, other than the painstakingly neat lines of stitches, foreign and incongruous against the whiteness of Hidan's flesh. Kakuzu stood and looked down at his partner bitterly before throwing a robe over him. Hidan still shivered, exposed skin alighting into goose bumps against the chilled air. A drop of blood splayed against the cloak darkening the black, making it glitter in the shrouded light, and Kakuzu cursed himself for not checking the stomach wounds.

He woke up when Kakuzu had begun to hope that he would not. When the hours had melted into a frigid morning light that spread across the room, bathing the room in a morbid faded yellow. Hidan stirred, murmured and his eyes darted open. Kakuzu did not move, only watched Hidan's slow progression from comatose to conscious, lips moving over curses and limbs stirring stiffly.

"You didn't need to make a fuss," Kakuzu said, looking away as Hidan sat up, because for once he would rather have talking than silence, rather have the harsh discord than the stifling weight of the air, unmoving and thick around them. He had no desire to meditate on terror.

"You've never been in so much fucking pain," Hidan said bitingly, an edge of weakness coating his voice, making his words soft and slick. "Shit," He groaned, rotating his wrist with a crack that sunk back into itself, hidden in his living flesh.

"You'll get used to it, then," Kakuzu stood, conscious of the stiffness in his body, "I thought you liked pain."

All was clinical and hard. This was fact, not fiction. Kakuzu could see the thinness of Hidan's skin, the frailty of his body, white and hidden in the bloody robe. The blood had dried on the floor, dark brown and somehow detached. The night had been fevered and dark, Hidan's face had been alive, his body hissing and thrumming with pain. His blood had been wet and thick and hot and real, and everything else was a mystery. His limbs had been dead at his side, a horror playing out before Kakuzu's eyes. His body, now languid under the firm glare of the sun had been tense and quaking, torn apart with pain.

Now Hidan lounged. His vicious voice had slowed to a drawl, still with a hint of a tremor shivering through it, a memory of torture, fluid and alive within him. He tasted this newfound torture, savoring the aftershock, rolling it around with his tongue.

"Let's go," Kakuzu said, because Hidan had an expression on his face that Kakuzu had never seen before, an expression of detached joy, of satirical relief. Hidan swept to his feet and pulled his robe around his shaky, naked body, attempting a jaunty smile.

"Fine. I'm fucking starving, seriously." He said but Kakuzu saw the unrest in his eyes, glimmering like the beginning of a storm, a rush of foreboding. It took Kakuzu a moment to realize what it was, the incongruous emotion, so neatly sewn into the brittleness of Hidan's face. It was fear, fear in all its glory-harsh, ragged and utterly unwelcome.

2.

Kakuzu can tell when Hidan is bored. He sees him biting his nails relentlessly, whispering to someone unseen (Kakuzu assumes Jashin, but he does not know). He hates it when Hidan is bored, because the boredom always latches onto him, Hidan's lips stifling against his throat, the second before he bites.

"I miss it," Hidan growled, his eyes wide and uncharacteristic, voice low and breakable, "I want it, once more."

His voice was a terrible moan that drew Kakuzu's attention, low and pleading. "What is it?" Kakuzu asked roughly, if only to remind Hidan of his presence. Hidan turned to meet Kakuzu's glare and replied in a whisper.

"The pain. Do you know how fucking great it was? Seriously. Best I've ever had," his words twisted, at once sardonic and terrified. Kakuzu laughed bitterly.

"You can stab at yourself whenever you want, you know," he said, "Don't complain about it."

"No, it was _differen_t," Hidan's face was reverent, "You would never understand. I was fucking torn apart. i Shredded /i . I couldn't move, or speak and I was just like…shit, _shaking_. Seriously, it was incredible. Better than any drug, I swear."

"You've never done drugs, have you?" Kakuzu asked eyes sliding back to his finances, hard black scratches on unforgiving paper.

Hidan laughed, "Of course I have. Thrill seeking, it's how I used to operate, seriously."

Kakuzu looked at Hidan once more. His face was lit with a sort of sickness, terror and beauty mingling in pure desire. Hidan's fingers clawed at his own throat, a cynical smile playing along his lips.

"I could help," Kakuzu whispered and desire flared within him suddenly and sharply, a match being struck. It was a feeling he could barely remember, not since petite white limbs and the flash of a girlish smile. But it was fresh now, as if it had been lying in wait. He wanted to tear Hidan apart, watch his face as he broke, shattered. He wanted to see the ecstasy too, the pain and the fear. The horrifying theatre playing out in Hidan's reckless, empty eyes.

Hidan only laughed. The figures on the page were strict and unyielding. Kakuzu could not rip them apart; if he did they would still be the same.

3.

His fingers slid over Hidan's neck and the air felt cold and accusing at his bare back. _Do it,_ the words slipped from between Hidan's lips quieter than a breath. He wanted to snatch those words, bury them somewhere he could not see, hide the shaking need they betrayed, the bitter weakness.

Hidan's body felt limp and breakable beneath his, insubstantial and unreal. His hands hovered over Hidan's throat once more, fingers gliding over the skin that was as smooth and slippery as glass. He closed his hands, felt the wind rush out of Hidan's mouth, hot against his lips. Hidan choked soundlessly, writhing beneath Kakuzu frantically. Kakuzu started, letting go of Hidan's throat and grinding down against him, his vision blurring with his lust and rage. He could not do it. He i could not /i do it. Hidan was still choking under him, thin legs snapping up and Kakuzu wanted so badly to tear at him, rip him apart and yet he could not.

Hidan growled, a harsh, startling sound and with surprising strength flipped Kakuzu over, hands clawing at his neck, breath hot and hissing in his ear._ Why, why don't you_? He repeated it like a prayer, grabbing at Kakuzu, choking and grasping, words a splutter of hatred.

Hidan was shaking, long after they finished. Anger-craggy and unfathomable flashed in his weary eyes.

"You're weak," he spat, leaping up and inspecting his body, white and bare in the moonlight. "Not a scratch on me. Fucking weak."

"What is wrong with you?" Kakuzu hissed, "You want me to rip you apart?" And the terrible feeling, desire and dread mingling together reared up within him. He was not fucking a living man, he was fucking someone cold and hard and dead. But Hidan was nodding fervently under the half-light, and his hands were clenched and tense and Kakuzu could still feel the absence of heat.

_Please._ Hidan reached for him. Kakuzu wondered if Jashinists believed in the end of the world.

(_to be continued)_


	2. part two

**Make it Quick-Part Two**

_Kakuzu/Hidan. Characters not mine. Contains mature content._

4.

"Jashin," Hidan said with an edge of the triumphant, and an edge of the ominous, "is all that matters, seriously. You think this is important? This shit? Come on, it's not hard." His teeth were sharp against his bloodless lips, baiting and drawing Kakuzu in, words stark and detached.

Hidan made him feel weak. Kakuzu knew he could shatter him; he remembered the shaking, broken Hidan who had shivered and cursed at his feet, limbs awry, face hidden by his undone hair, the ivory of his cheekbones glistening with sweat and tears. Lately, Kakuzu could not stop thinking about it. It haunted him, woven beneath the figures in his mind, his dreams of wealth and it reared up when he used Hidan, or let Hidan use him (he never knew; he never asked). He wanted it-the heat, the cries and the blood. He wanted Hidan out of control, wanted him raw and brutalized. And he wanted to do it himself, the taste of Hidan's blood fresh on his lips, his flesh tender and torn beneath his own hands.

He could not do it. And it _hurt_. Kakuzu had not felt pain in a century (not real pain anyway, nothing sharp or hot) and this hurt, like a barricade he could not smash, something he thrust himself against and nothing moved, this unstoppable, unbreakable ache. Hidan pleaded to him, words sharp edged and fragile, taunting him again and again and Kakuzu just wanted the blood and the beauty and he could not, because then Hidan would be dead, but not and it would just remind him of _everything_. It would remind him of all the broken bodies, the haze of blood, the lies and the torment. It would remind him of the cries _(her cries_), and it would remind him that Hidan is not real, that nothing is real. Because if Hidan, Hidan with his hatred and his violence and his beauty, if living, breathing, feeling Hidan was not real, then how could the empty gold coins Kakuzu counts-day and night-ever be? He gives them to men whose eyes contain nothing but greed and he knows that his are exactly the same.

He didn't understand why he was reluctant to die. Hadn't it been enough? Hadn't it been enough death, enough love lost? He had lost everything, but now, now there was something knew and there it was-a thrill, hot and heady. It was Hidan crying out for everyone's salvation but his own, his mouth against Kakuzu's throat, begging for destruction. Kakuzu needed to know _why_. That was all. That was all he wanted, he wanted real-something truly real, and then maybe (maybe) he could go.

Hidan was fleeting; he was nothingness. He twisted against Kakuzu, teeth bared and glinting in the half-light and Kakuzu let his hands come up, close once more around the column of Hidan's throat. Hidan's sigh was ragged and harsh against Kakuzu's chin more steel than breath. Silent, Hidan arched his back up and Kakuzu came hard, hands tightening around Hidan's throat, fingernails digging into the sensitive flesh. Hidan's gasp was one of fear and elation and finally he cried out, and all Kakuzu could see was red. He lowered his lips to Hidan's throat, and smelled the blood, hot and metallic against his lips. He dugs his fingers in, and he _hated_ with everything he had in him and heard Hidan's chokes, the wet slick of blood and the snap of bones. Hidan shuddered and went limp for a moment and Kakuzu inhaled sharply, the scent of blood and sweat and sex filling the air. He leapt up and the air was cold and unforgiving around him, pressing against his damp, bare skin. Hidan was silent, his skin sticky and dark with blood, and his body shaking. Kakuzu looked away before he could see what he had done, reaching for his cloak and pulling it around him, then his mask, hiding once more. He looked at Hidan.

Hidan's eyes were wide in something reverence and agony. His throat was savaged, ripped apart and his breaths came in shudders that made the unrecognizable flesh quiver. His jaw was bruising, Kakuzu could see the white turning to shades of purple and red, and his blood pumped crimson over the array of his bare chest, bruised and swollen. It was beautiful-the darkness of the colours, far too vibrant to be contained in any sort of thought. Kakuzu could not tear his eyes away, even as threads danced around the tips of his fingers, caressing the wound, digging against the broken skin. Hidan moaned as Kakuzu began to sew, his bruised lips trying to form words, a prayer, a curse or both.

"Y-y-you…" he was stammering, choking and gagging on his words and his anger, and Kakuzu ignored him, focusing on the neat, vertical scar that was forming, snake-like black line glimmering in a sea of red. He pulled extra tight, and Hidan arched in pain. When it was finished, he walked away, leaving Hidan shaking with sobs, or laughter.

Hidan's blood was real. It was all over Kakuzu, splattered onto his face, he tasted it on his lips. His hands were dark with it. Hidan couldn't be though, no, not when his immortality was so improbable, so complete. Kakuzu would not call himself immortal. He would call himself insured. His life had at least a semi-logical reason behind it. Hidan had nothing but a whispered name, blood and a rosary. Kakuzu washed it off of him, washed off Hidan's blood and Hidan's curse.

Money was colder. Money was harder. Money was not dead, because it was never alive. Still, it felt better in Kakuzu's hands. Better than Hidan, twisting and laughing over him, pure white like some sort of satanic figure, some sort of fallen angel, the crimson of his eyes so dark and secret, like a bloodstained blade. He was so sure, every movement glowed and beside him Kakuzu was invisible with his own feeble version of immortality. Next to Hidan's passion and his vicious voice Kakuzu had nothing, nothing but the cold cash in his pockets, and a tangle of threads and cords writhing within him. Nothing but hearts that beat out of time and eyes that saw nothing but other people's greed. For the first time in a couple hundred years Kakuzu wished he could weep. But the pain had settled into a dull ache once more, empty like bounties he memorized or the coins he stashed.

Hidan came up behind him, soundless, a gleaming shadow. His eyes were hazy and the red of his blood looked pristine and orderly against the marble of his flesh. "Didn't think you would," he said, quiet for once, and Kakuzu looked up into the mirror, at the monsters they both were.

"What choice did I have," he murmured, "You think I could resist?"

"Nah," Hidan said faintly, fingering the scar and licking the blood off the tips of his fingers, "Fucking beautiful, isn't it?"

Kakuzu would have wondered if Hidan even had a heart that beat, but he already knew, he had felt it, pounding like a one of a frightened animal. He wanted to see it, see the veins and arteries exposed, beating and shivering in the open air. What would happen, he wondered, if he took it away?

(fin)


End file.
